Ordinary Scales
by Jaelijn
Summary: After the death of Sherlock Holmes and his wife Mary, Dr Watson is devastated. On the very day of Mary's funeral, Mycroft Holmes intrudes upon his grief with a mysterious message... No slash. Rated T for mention of thoughts of suicide only.


_Author's Note: This is an AU to both EMP and FIN. Written as a challenge entry for challenge 10 over at LJ watsons_woes. Warning for preceding minor character death. _

_Those wonderful characters, even if they are now public domain, were still created by ACD, not me.  
_

_

* * *

  
_

The letter arrived on the very day of Mary's funeral, and had it not felt peculiar stiff and thick, I would not have bothered to look at it.

I was woefully lacking both the nerve and the concentration for responding to any of my correspondences, most of all were letters of condolence anyway, and the string of murmured regrets from the funeral was still ringing in my ears.

I could no longer cry over my wife's death, my tears were all but spent, but I felt her loss everywhere. Our common home was too large, too silent without her, and I even had the impression that she would walk into the room at any moment, which she would never do again. After Holmes's death, she had been the one thing that kept me alive, aside from my work and my duty to preserve the memory. Now, she was gone, too, and all that remained to me were memories.

I felt dearly that memories were not enough to rebuild a life on.

However, the letter had sparked my interest, and so I slit it open with Mary's colourful letter-opener that had chanced to lie on my writing table, even though my hand trembled forcefully in the process. Inside, there was a postcard from Tibet, of all places, and a neatly folded piece of paper with only some lines on it. The writing was familiar, but I had to glance at the elaborate signature at the bottom to place it – Mycroft Holmes.

Sherlock's elder had a peculiar sense of humour, and I nearly dropped the curious assortment on the pile of the other letters of condolence, had not one word caught my eye - "Sherlock" - and I crushed the paper in anger.

Was Mary's death not enough? Why, on this day, did Mycroft have to tear up old wounds?

Only last week I had cried myself to sleep, when, after being utterly exhausted by caring for Mary, I had foolishly read my newly published account of Holmes's death. Every current of water, every cloud of fog still sent shivers down my spine.

With a sigh, I smoothed out the paper. The letter was not very long. It ran thus:

Must see you over Sherlock. Hope that the postcard serves as a proof of what he had been up to.

Mycroft

It was clear to me that Mycroft, who had seemed to me to be more preceptive to human emotions than his brother, must have been driven clear out of his senses by grief. Sherlock Holmes was irreversibly dead, and I had yet to come to believe in ghosts to give serious consideration to Mycroft's statement. As wildly romantic as Holmes would have me be, I had yet to cross that line.

However, as a doctor it was my duty to help the man, more so since I shared his sentiments. Therefore, I set out for the Diogenes Club immediately and met Mycroft in the Stranger's Room.

To my surprise, he seemed normal, very calm and not at all disturbed, unlike I felt. Of course, he had to over his condolences, which drove another pang into my already broken heart, but thankfully, he left it at that, although he no doubt deduced how horrible I felt.

"I fear that I must apologize for both my brother and myself, doctor. You must understand that he acted upon my advice; I see now that I was wrong."

"Mycroft, your brother died at the Reichenbach Falls." If he was disturbed by my familiar address or my words, he did not show it. He didn't even flinch.

"No, doctor, he did not. However, he wanted the world to have that impression."

A swirl of emotions assaulted me, and I grasped the armrests of my chair for support. Incredulity, a fleeting feeling of pity quickly evaporated at Mycroft's earnest face, and was all too quickly replaced by flashes of joy and rage that made my stomach turn and my head reel.

If it was true, indeed true, then Holmes had betrayed me, used me, hurt me, deliberately, and with no reason other that his brother's advice. Our friendship – I – had meant so little to him that he had ended it in such a fashion that was both unjust and cruel, and I felt deeply wronged.

In truth, I felt as if the brothers were mocking me, pulling the shreds of ground I had still left from under me. I felt they were making fun of Mary's death; even if the notion was ridiculous, it was more than I could bear.

"If what you say is true, you may tell your brother that I feel very unjustly treated and that, for the sake of our friendship, I would have expected to be informed immediately. As it is, you may tell him that I can never forgive him. In time, I will maybe write, but as of now, I do not want to see him, or hear of him. Good-day, sir." I spoke coldly, cruelly, and as devoid of emotion as I would never have thought me capable, but in that moment, I meant every word, and regretted none of it.

"Watson. He is not well."

My step faltered, but then I thought of Mary, my dear Mary, who had borne her illness so bravely for my sake, who had fought to the last to avoid causing me grief, who had cared as much for me as I had for her, and I picked up my step and left. Holmes had done nothing, nothing at all to deserve my consideration, had not even seen it fit to inform me of his survival.

I dedicated the evening to the memory of Mary, and banned Holmes from my mind, because I must confess that in my heart I felt guilty for reacting so harshly, irrationally, and based on emotions alone. Holmes could interpret his fellow humans' feelings, and I had never doubted that he possessed them as well, but he found it difficult to understand them as a source of actions if they were not a motive to a crime. Maybe he had not even thought about the effect his 'death' would have on me, since it had not affected his goal, whatever that was.

However, my anger carried me well into the next week, and I would stubbornly walk past Holmes's 'grave' in the cemetery, even though it started to look neglected, and spent my time at Mary's alone, before I returned to my praxis, again making a point of not looking at the grave. It was almost as if Mycroft had not made his revelation, only I would never have considered holding a grudge against a ghost.

It was only another message from Mycroft that forced me to consider the problem I had been pushing ahead of me. It was a telegram this time, informing me that Holmes had disappeared from the private hospital where he had been treated.

Against all instincts, I met Mycroft to inquire what exactly was ailing his brother, for I had a feeling that Holmes was more than capable of feeling guilt, and liable to do something rash, which I did not desire, after all.

Mycroft was very serious in both speech and expression. "He did fall down the falls, and survived only because the water was deep enough where he fell. However, he was badly injured, and when his first message arrived, you had already returned to London, convinced of his death.

"As for his injury, he had lost his ability to walk due to a severe damage to the spine, as I was told. Therefore, I advised him to travel to Tibet. The healing methods of the East are almost miraculous.

We both were not in our right mind, which may be an explanation why we neglected to inform you, even though it is hardly and excuse for the pain we have caused you. However, I did not know whether Sherlock would want to continue his life if his impairment proved to be irreversibly, and thought it best to leave you in the opinion that he had died as the man he had been.

"As it was, Sherlock did regain some use of his legs, and although he is still far from well, he is improving, which is the reason why I decided to inform you now. I believe, the last step can only be done with your aid, doctor. He trust you more than anyone else."

"Where is he, then?"

"I have not the foggiest idea. He is not at Baker Street."

"I may know where he is. Give me two hours."

As a matter of fact, I had become so accustomed to purposefully, almost theatrically, ignoring Holmes's grave that I only perceived the figure at Mary's when it was already too late to just turn and inform Mycroft.

Holmes knelt before the grave in a peculiar, stiff manner, two crutches thrown into the grass beside him. He was clearly marked by his illness, and his face was deadly earnest. He had noticed me, of course, although he did not look up. "Watson."

I had forgotten how my name sounded when he said it. So soft, so gentle, with a slight dark timbre to it, as if the lowest string of the violin was brushed gently.

"I have come to get you back to the hospital. Your brother is worried."

He looked up at my cold tone, his face expressionless, but his grey eyes livid. "Aren't you?"

"I'll wait in the cab." I turned to walk away, merely for the reason that I felt that else I would lose my composure, and somehow, I still thought I had to be angry, hurt, should not even be talking to him, even if I knew deep inside that I was lying to myself. I was no longer angry, but relieved. And worried.

"Watson." There was some motion behind my back, and I knew that he had risen without his aids. "Watson."

I turned, taking in his medical condition in one glance. He was more than unsteady on his legs, it was a wonder that he was standing at all. "Do you think making me feel guilty will change everything? I have been feeling guilty for three years, Holmes!" At that, my voice broke, and I could no longer continue.

He must have noticed. Holmes took a step towards me, nearly collapsing. "I have come to apologise, Watson. Your wife's death..." He cleared his throat, appearing lost and vulnerable, and not a little defiant. "Dash it all. No more platitudes, Watson. I truly am very sorry. So sorry."

For minutes, we just stared at each other, while the world continued to turn without us. My gaze was transfixed on Holmes's face. How could I not accept an apology that had come from his very heart, how could I not forgive him when he needed me so dearly, and I felt, in my own core, that I should be crying out in joy at the fact that he was alive, and had suffered so much to return to me as I knew him – for Holmes, the prospect of being crippled had to be so much harder to bear, and yet he had continued living, more for my sake, and his brother's, than for his own. I do not remember what exactly went on in my head and heart that moment, but I do remember very clearly Holmes's expression.

It changed slowly from desperate pleas to pain, but my own turmoil froze me on the spot, but when his strength failed him, I leapt forward to catch him, and pulled him into a tight embrace.

Originally, he had stiffened, but slowly I felt him relaxing, and he returned the gesture gingerly.

"I'm sorry, Holmes. I'm such a hypocrite. I should have know that you are not like other people, I should not have tried and measured you on ordinary scales. I do forgive you, my dear fellow."

He chuckled quietly, relieved, and the sound warmed my heart. "I shall strive to be more normal in the future, Watson. But now, we have work to do."

* * *

_A/N: Remember to review! Thanks and cookies for anyone who does. ;)_


End file.
